


The Gallery

by orphan_account



Category: Original Work
Genre: Artists, Blood and Gore, Isolation, Loneliness, Mental Breakdown, Self-Harm, Suffering, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 02:34:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29976078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: A thoughtless poem of sorts on the frustration of being a maker, with no reason to make and no one to make for.  Based on my current mental breakdown.
Kudos: 1





	The Gallery

The woman dies. 

The gallery party is grand, visitors fawn over the works of the artists and the sculptors and the writers. They swoon and praise and smile, the crafters puff up and blush and feel light with the kindness.

In another room, she sits. 

This room is bright, too. But it is empty. The floor is littered with books and stories she wrote, never read. Every wall, covered with paintings, forgotten in the dust. Statues she crafted from her bare hands turn the empty space into a maze. 

She’s been there for so long. She put love and heart into each word, each stroke of brush, each careful dip and curve. She pulled in her creations, set up her exhibits with pride and giddy. And she took a seat. Heard the swarm of visitors, and felt light with excitement. Her heart, her soul, every bit of joy and pain and sorrow and elatedness, soon to be known. Soon to be understood, even.

So, she waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And no one came.

She frowned, leaned from her chair to look at the door, glancing at her watch. Hours passed. No one came. Her books turned yellow. Dust and grime gathered on her sculptures. Her paintings lose their color. 

She wondered why, why no one came to see her. She could hear them. The laughter, the swooning and the praise. Just outside. She told herself people would come see her when they were done looking at everything else. She would be last.

But the gallery closed. And no one came to see her work. 

She cried all night, sobbed until her throat bled. But she wiped her tears and promised to do better next year. She spent every day until the next showing on her works. Every paper had more heart, every painting more soul, sculpture more life. And she set up her exhibit the next showing, in that same room. 

And she heard the stampede of excited visitors, heard the delighted gasps and compliments. 

And no one came to her room. 

She sat and waited. Pressed her ear against the door, heart thrummed with each step near it. But nobody came. 

So she promised to be better.

She used the rest of her heart, soul, and life, making her next works the best of her portfolio. Her books sang with emotion and love, her paintings grasped at the spirit, her sculptures looked as though they could reach out and touch. 

And so she took her seat by the door, and sat with clasped hands and a proud grin. She heard the doors open and the visitors come, heard the laughter and music and award ceremony and the applause.

And she waited, and waited. And waited. Until the door opened, finally, and she jumped to her feet with glee, rushed to her guest to show them around. The guard held up his hand, told her the gallery was closing and to leave. The showing was over. 

And no one came.

She asked if he wanted to see. He turned and left.

She stood in that room. Looked at her work. It was everything she had to offer. And all she saw was failure.

She promised to be better. She had to be better. Next year. Next year for sure.

She had no more heart, so she snipped a vein and used blood for ink . She had no more soul, so she used her vomit and tears for paint. She had no more life, so she took a knife and cut off pieces of herself for her sculptures. 

And the next year, she took a seat at the door. 

And no one came.

And she had nothing left. So she sat there. The gallery closed. The guard left her to her works.

Blood dripped from her wounds. She sat curled in the corner, reading her books and finding nothing but failure. They were bad. She was not a good writer, she learned. That's why no one came. So she crawled to her sculptures, and found every little flaw she could, every crack and centimeter too much. She was not a good sculptor. Thats why no one came.. She looked at her paintings, found the colors bleeding into each other, her anatomy off balance. She was not a good painter. That's why no one came. 

It had to be.

No one came because there was nothing worth seeing. 

She had nothing to do. 

She withered and decayed in that room. The next years showing came around. No, she didn't sit by the door. She dragged her frail body behind the drapes and covered her ears. Hoping that if she couldn't hear anything, the ache of hearing the applause would go. 

The drapes were cold, but she stayed. And did not wait. Simply stayed there. The door didn't open. No one came. Not even the guard.

She couldn't bear to see her work. She stayed behind the drapes, rotting away.

The next showing came. She lay broken in the corner. Her works worn and battered with age.

The door opened. She had no strength to see who it was. They walked through the exhibit. Hummed and hawed. And left. 

She had dreamed of it. Fantasized.

Someone would walk in. She would greet them, nervous and shy but polite and brimming with intrigue. They would ask to be shown around, given a tour. Every work would be rich with detail and story. They would sit and read her books, admire her paintings, circle her statues with intrigue. And after long, after hours of her sitting in the corner waiting for their appraisal, they would come over and talk. Want to know more about her work. About her. 

And maybe. Just maybe. Maybe they would want to be her friend. Maybe they would want to talk about other things. Maybe she would make herself so alluring that they could see her for more than what she made. 

She would have a friend. Like the other crafters, who gave their unfinished paintings and unshielded statues and unrevised books to their friends and were met with encouraging words. Keep going, this is gorgeous, don't stop doing this. This matters. 

She always wanted that. She dreamed of it. 

But her visitor left. The door shut, and the room fell silent. She lay behind the drapes. 

But she didn't want to die like this. 

With her last bit of hope, she crawled to her chair. She broke off the leg and rubbed the end against the floor till it was sharp. 

She had one last thing. 

She took her spear, and stabbed it into herself, prying off chunks of flesh and ripping bones. Taking the wet meat, she rubbed it on the floor to make a painting. With the flesh, she stitched it all together with her hair to make a sculpture. Snapping her bones open, she took the marrow and a pointed shard and wrote another story on the wall. 

She put the very left essence of herself into these final pieces. And then she had nothing. 

Her last moments were bitter. Surrounded by her failures.

And no one came to her room. 

The gallery hosts such grand parties. Crafters of all countries and talent and heart show their work. They are sung as champions of art. They are praised. They spurn love and adoration with every little piece.

In the gallery, the woman lay dead. She never knew why she was ignored. She never knew what she did wrong.

Her only regret was trying in the first place. 

  
  
  
  



End file.
